Royal Ghouls Page 11

  “Your poisoned bread.”

  “I didn’t know that when I gave it to her.”

  I dumped my things on the desk, plugged my phone into the charger. “You could have told me you gave her the bread.”

  “My memory is not what it used to be. These days I do not have a brain.”

  He had a point and it was a good one—or would have been if I trusted the man.

  “Want to know what I think?”

  Kyrios Harry made a face. “No.”

  “Then it’s your lucky night because I’m going to tell you anyway.” My finger poked a hole in the air. “I think you are holding out on me.” That same finger swung around to point at Kyria Eva. “And you …”

  “What about my sister?” Harry demanded.

  “Somebody could have told me she’s married to Johnny Margas. In fact, she owns the boat he sailed in on today.”

  Kyrios Harry’s face turned red. “What?” He swung around to shoot eye daggers at his sister. “Is this true? For how long?”

  Interesting. Very interesting. “You didn’t know?” I asked Kyrios Harry.

  “Of course I did not know. You think I would let my sister marry that malakas?

  “Two years,” Kyria Eva said. “We have been married for two wonderful years. And do you know why they have been wonderful? Because you did not know.”

  “Divorce him!”

  “No.” Kyria Eva pulled herself into a tall, fragile column and stuck her chin out. “What are you going to do? Kill me?” She stuck her chin out further. “I would like to see you try.”

  I went to the kitchen for water. “I just want to remind you that you’re currently in critical condition in a hospital bed and that you could go at any time.”

  The bikini babes were lined up against the back of my couch, fixated on the family feud.

  “I wish we could still eat popcorn,” one said.

  “If you’re married to Johnny Margas, what were you doing on the Royal Pain?” I asked her. “And how did you keep your marriage secret all this time?”

  “When you are rich is it easier to hide things,” Kyria Eva said.

  Her brother nodded. “Things like money, yes, but people?”

  Kyria Eva stuck her finger in his face. “What do you know about anything? All you know is bread. People hide secret babies, marriages, addictions, all kinds of things.”

  “To be fair, it’s a lot harder to hide things in Greece than most places,” I said.

  “Except money,” Kyrios Harry said. “Greeks can hide money better than anyone. We hid all of ours and now we are using Germany’s money.”

  Over-simplified, but sort-of correct.

  My phone rang.

  “I want you to stay away from the Vasilikos case,” Leo said before I could say anything.

  “Why?”

  “Because someone murdered those people. Remember last time you got involved in a homicide? You could have been killed.”

  As if I could forget. Kyria Olga was my best friend.

  “So you want me to drop it because you’re worried about my safety?”

  “Yes. I care about you.”

  In the one corner, Excitement was lacing its gloves. In the other, Terror was getting a pep talk from Survival Instinct. The fight happened fast. Terror knocked Excitement on its tailbone.

  “It’s not your place to worry about me, Detective Samaras. I’m thirty-one-years-old and I didn’t stay alive this long by being stupid.”

  “I’m not saying you’re stupid. I know you’re not.” He lowered his voice. “Look, whoever did this, they’re not some old woman. This was somebody with resources and access to a wealthy man’s property. You think it was easy to kill them? This took somebody with skill, and if you snoop around, you might be next.”

  “They were killed on their way to Merope—not on Merope. If the killer was here then wouldn’t they wait until Harry Vasilikos and his friends reached the island?”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Neither do you. It’s been a couple of days and no one knows much of anything yet.”

  He sighed. “Allie, the Thessaly Police won’t be happy if you stomp on their turf. We’re more casual here.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “Why do you care about this case so much, can you at least tell me that?”

  “It’s personal.”

  “Did you know someone on that yacht?”

  “No.”

  He went quite for a moment. Finally, he said, “Is it something to do with Andreas?”

  I froze. “Don’t say his name. You didn’t know him.”

  “I did, actually. I grew up here, remember? Yes, I was away for a long time, but I knew Andreas. I liked him a lot. We weren’t close but I considered him a friend. When he—”

  “Don’t.”

  “Okay.” A long, heavy silence happened. My least favorite kind. “Just do me a favor and stay away from the Vasilikos case. I know you don’t want me to care, but I do. Give me one less thing to worry about.”

  Without another word, I ended the call. The tug-of-war in my head continued. A gooey, melty feeling on one team, fear of winding up in a casket on the other. Unlike real life tug-of-war, all this emotional tugging with no win for either team in sight made me cranky. PMS times a hundred. And did I have chocolate? No. No, I did not. This was not a happy thing.

  Leo. Andreas. Leo. Andreas.

  Why didn’t I have any sugar in this place? And why were these malakes still arguing in my apartment?

  “And I wish you’d all leave,” I snapped, “but I don’t see me getting that anytime soon either.”

  The siblings quit bickering.

  “Why not?” Kyrios Harry asked. “I promised I would leave when you solved my murder.”

  “Because your murder, and theirs” I waved at the women “is out of the local police’s jurisdiction.”

  He shrugged. “So? You are not the police.”

  “I’ve done all I can do. I discovered the potential murder weapon and I’ve taken notes of all my conversations with the suspects I have access to, which is basically none. In the morning, I’m turning everything over to the Thessaly Police. And if you won’t tell me what happened to Andreas, fine. Tonight, I’m too tired to care.”

  On that note, I slammed my bedroom door, threw myself down on the bed.

  Lights out.

  I wanted to say it was a natural waking, but there’s nothing natural about being woken up at the crack of dawn by a rooster. Chicken enthusiasts can kiss my kolos.

  Okay, I liked chickens—mmm … chicken wings—but not roosters. And I didn’t like waking up before the sun had booted the moon out of the sky.

  I rolled over and came face to face with Dead Cat. He was hunched on my extra pillow, overbite pointed in my direction, watching me come to terms with this whole waking up early thing.

  “You need a name. A real name. I can’t keep calling you Dead Cat. That’s not a name, it’s a description. Ginger? No. Also a description. Let me work on it.”

  The dead cat revved his motor.

  Outside, the rooster crowed again. As dangerously as it was living, that bird was destined to become a sandwich filling.

  Dead Cat remained on my pillow while I went to grab my laptop and phone. Normally I don’t mix business and pleasure—and sleeping was definitely pleasure—but my living room was still crowded with the dead and the half-dead. Back against the headboard, covers yanked up to my chest, I opened my laptop and checked my email. A few new jobs had popped into my inbox overnight. Most were small and I cleared them off my to-do list quickly. My voicemail contained more paying work. One job I’d have to take care of in person. Missing jewelry. Not a theft, therefore not a police matter. So they’d called me, and could I please come to the family farm this morning?

  Oooh, email from Jimmy Kontos. How exciting. What did the little twerp want this time?

  I clicked on his email.

  Help me get a date with
Lydia.

  Great. Now he wanted me to be a pimp.

  Not a pimp, I told him.

  His reply shot right back.

  Please?

  Still not a pimp.

  But I really like her.

  But I’m really not a pimp.

  You stink, even for a giant.

  And you’re short, even for a nanos.

  I closed the laptop and pulled the covers over my head. If Jimmy wanted a date with Lydia he needed to do it the old fashioned way, like the rest of us: by potentially humiliating himself. Finders Keepers wasn’t a dating service. People’s love lives were their own business.

  Fists rained on my front door.

  What now?

  I stomped out and peered through the peephole. Nobody was there, that’s how I knew Jimmy Kontos was on the other side. I yanked open the door.

  “What?”

  No answer. He pushed past me and planted his kolos on my couch. His legs dangled. His feet didn’t have a hope of touching the floor. He was wearing jeans with too much cuff and boots with too much heel.

  What was worse: the uninvited ghosts or the uninvited shrimp?

  “Are those high heels?”

  “What? No.”

  “Because those look like high heels to me. Maybe we need a second opinion. If only I knew someone who lives and breathes fashion. Someone who lives across the hall.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Don’t you dare.” He wiggled his butt down into my couch cushions and dropped his boots on my coffee table.

  “Did you miss the part where I didn’t invite you in?”

  Jimmy checked me out. He made a face—at least I think he did. It was hard to tell under all that hair. “Is that what you sleep in? No wonder you’re single.”

  I held the door open. “Get out.”

  “No wonder you have no friends,” Harry Vasilikos said from his spot by the window. He sure enjoyed that view of the parking lot.

  “I have friends,” I snapped.

  Jimmy’s head swiveled. “Are you crazy? Because that would make a lot of sense. You seem like a crazy person.”

  This was hell, and I was in it.

  “What do you want, Jimmy? You want me to get you a date with Lydia? I’ll call her right now and ask her.”

  He jumped up. “Not so loud. She might hear you.”

  “Isn't that the point? That’s how you get a date: by using words.”

  “Boy, for a smart person you sure are a vlakas.”

  "I like this nanos,” Harry said. I shot him with my best stink-eye.

  “If you want help, drop the insults.” I aimed my words at both of them.

  Jimmy held up both his hands in supplication, not the open-palmed moutsa. “Okay, okay. I’ll be good.”

  Slowly, I closed the door. I wasn’t ready to sit yet, so I folded my arms and leaned against the door as a reminder that I could easily pick him up and toss him out.

  “Talk,” I said. “But not too much.”

  Jimmy mimed writing with a pen. “I want you to write her a love letter for me.”

  “Are you illiterate? I know some good teachers.”

  “No, I can read and write you giant—”

  Dirty look. Filthy. And not in a good way.

  “—did I mention you are amazing? And you look good in whatever that is you are wearing, even if it is old pajamas? That’s old pajamas, yes?”

  “Hmm …”

  He flopped back against my cushions, head in hands. “I can write but I can’t write love letters.”

  “And you think I can?”

  “Of course. You’re a woman.”

  “Well, this woman can’t write love letters.” That was a lie. I could and I had. Ask whoever handled the Backstreet Boys’ fan mail. I could write love letters with the worst of them.

  “Okay,” he said. “Can you order flowers?”

  “That I can do, but why can’t you do it yourself?”

  “I want it to be anonymous. Nobody on this island can keep a secret.”

  Good point. If he ordered flowers on Merope, even anonymously, the moment Lydia called them to ask about her secret admirer, the island’s only florist would spit out Jimmy’s name.

  “All right, I’ll order flowers for her. But that’s as far as I go. I meant it when I said I’m not a pimp.”

  Jimmy rubbed his hands together. He wiggled off the couch and pulled out his wallet. “Go get dressed.”

  “Now? It’s barely light out. The florist won’t open until nine.”

  “If you go now you’ll be first in line. I really like this woman.”

  I sighed and took his money, which included enough for an extravagant bouquet of flowers and more than enough to cover my time and trouble. Jimmy was a malakas but he wasn’t cheap.

  “Any preferences?”

  “Roses,” he said. “Women always love roses.”

  Kyria Hondrou’s family farm had been churning out chickens since my family starting eating them, generations ago. Hondrou chickens swung from meathooks in the windows of Merope’s meat shops (never call it a butcher’s shop, otherwise they’ll think you’re shopping for penis), with and without feathers. The birds were always plump and delicious, thanks to a secret ingredient Kyria Hondrou mixed with their feed. The secret ingredient was ouzo, or so my secret source told me. Hondrou birds died as they had lived: relaxed and happy.

  Kyria Hondrou was from my grandmother’s generation. Kyria Hondrou’s figure resembled the birds she raised: scrawny knock-knees, over-developed breasts that hung at waist-level. Her chicken figure was was shrouded in black. She propped up her stoop with a cane. Her eyes were black marbles, pressed into puckered holes. They saw everything and they didn’t like any of it. She had one eyebrow that ran from temple to temple, a wide thick strip with gnarled hairs of varying lengths. The monobrow was terrifying and I couldn’t quit looking at it. No one could. It was like someone had hammered a weasel to death with a mallet and stapled it to her face. Tourists who encountered Kyria Hondrou’s monobrow raced to the store for tweezers and wax. She was the reason threading was a thing on Merope.

  This was my first visit to the Hondrou family farm. Kyria Hondrou was sitting in a green-and-white striped deck chair that was more rust than metal. Through beady eyes, she watched scores of chickens peck at the ground. She didn’t greet me. That duty fell on the shoulders of her daughter-in-law, Eleni, who spent her days running around after the chickens like they were an extra set of children. Eleni did everything, and she never did it well enough. Eleni and her husband had five children, none of whom made Kyria Hondrou happy.

  According to Eleni, a thin, quiet woman who I’d gone to high school with, Kyria Hondrou had managed to lose the crucifix that hung from her neck, despite the fact that she never left her chair, except to travel to the outhouse and back, and to and from her bed in the kitchen, twice each day.

  “It is silver,” Kyria Hondrou said, fixing those dark holes on my face. “Worth a fortune.”

  No point telling her that as far as metals go, silver wasn’t worth much these days.

  “What does it look like?” I asked.

  Kyria Hondrou snorted like a bull. “You do not go to church? It is a crucifix. It looks like this.” Arms up and out. Chin on chest. The monobrow stared at me. I couldn’t look away.

  “Silver, you said?”

  “Silver.” She thumped her cane on the packed dirt. “I will sit here and watch while you look for it.”

  I swung around and looked at Eleni. “Where was it lost?”

  “Here on the farm,” Kyria Hondrou barked.

  Eleni shrugged. “Somewhere in the yard.” She blinked. I wondered if it was Morse Code for “help me.”

  Big yard. Lots of places to lose a necklace. Chickens everywhere. Long, low troughs filled with Kyria Hondrou’s magical fowl food. Dilapidated sheds. A tree stump, the top criss-crossed with axe wounds. Maroon stains. A gleaming axe leaning against the stump.

  Meat comes from a supermarke
t, I reminded myself. It doesn’t swing from hooks after losing its head on a tree stump.

  “Do not think you will get a free chicken,” Kyria Hondrou said, following my gaze.

  “I don’t eat chicken,” I lied.

  “Everybody eats chicken,” she said.

  “Vegetarians don’t eat chicken, Mama,” Eleni said.

  “Who asked you?”

  I circled the yard. Chill chickens followed me.

  “Where are you going?” Kyria Hondrou tapped her cane on the ground. “Vre, Eleni, where is she going?”

  “I’m looking for your necklace,” I said.

  Eleni excused herself. She had to fix lunch for the family and get away from her mother-in-law, probably before she was temped to use that axe. I was casting the sharp blade longing gazes, too.

  Kyria Hondrou raised her cane, used to it point to the far corner of the yard, where someone had set up a paddling pool for Eleni’s kids. “There.”

  “In the pool?”

  “In the pool.”

  “And you couldn’t reach in and get it yourself?”

  Her monobrow dipped in the center. “That is what you do, no?”

  I suppressed a groan. Taking her money when all I had to do was bend down and pluck the necklace out of the water was robbery.

  The monobrow was watching me. “How much?”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said. “I can’t charge you for this.”

  For the first time in human history, she smiled. “This is what I hoped you would say.”

  I rolled up my sleeves and trotted over to the paddling pool.

  And recoiled.

  It was a paddling pool, yes, but something was seriously wrong with the contents. If it was water it had been filtered through a chicken’s digestive system. The pool was filled to the brim with greenish-brown paste that glistened ominously in the sun.

  The stench of chicken kaka punched me in the stomach. I gagged.

  Kyria Hondrou hit the ground with her cane. “What are you waiting for, eh?”

  “This is full of chicken kaka.”

  “Good news, you are not blind.”

  I stared at the pool. Where was the Vicks Vapor Rub when I needed it?

  “Hurry up,” she said.

  Virgin Mary, she expected me to stick my hand in there for a cheap necklace? “Do you have any rubber gloves? A hazmat suit?”